


Stakes on the Wild Card

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gambling, Jim is being a knight, M/M, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: Written for my Tumblr milestone and the superb anon who gave this prompt:For the prompt, how about Gobblepot or just GCPD crew playing poker?And that's basically what happens here. But not quite.Divergent from the second half of Season 3 or so.





	Stakes on the Wild Card

 

“Trade?”

“Two.”

“I see your two and raise you twenty.”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

Eyes darting past Jim’s and then back to cards.

“Try me.”

“Call.”

“Really?”

“What’s your problem with the way I bet?”

“Thought you’d be more of a challenge, Gordon.”

Jim hums. “Whatever.”

“Fold.”

“You serious?”

“Shut it, we have no idea who’s winning here anyway.”

“So? Who’s winning?”

They all raise their heads to the ceiling and await the verdict. Once again the disembodied and distorted voice booms from above, and Jim winces.

“Round goes to Butch Gilzean.”

Butch whoops and points at Oswald again.

“You, Penguin! I choose you!”

Oswald glares at him. “Are you sure you want to proceed in this way, Butch? You don’t want to get on my bad side.”

“Should’ve thought about it before you chopped off my arm,” Butch says, unaffected. “So it’s gonna be you and you gotta strip.”

“I refuse!” Oswald exclaims, addressing not Butch but the ceiling. “Do you hear that? I refuse to be a part of this fucked-up farce any longer!”

“Now, now, Mr. Cobblepot,” says the voice again and even distorted it sounds mocking. “Do you really need another demonstration? I will not hesitate to crank the lever to the fullest, so you’d better play along.”

Oswald pales, involuntarily touching the choker around his neck. His eyes dart around the table but somehow never end up meeting Jim’s and this is both a frustration and a relief.

“ _Fine,_ ” Oswald grits through his teeth venomously, taking off his vest. He hangs it casually on the back of his chair with the rest of the clothes and Jim can’t help taking in his every move, noticing every little detail.

“New round,” the voice says, and Jim winces once more.

What could be the goal? Who’d want to kidnap them and - make them play poker, of all things?

Jim’s head still aches from the attack. There’s a vile taste in his mouth, something from the knockout drug, no doubt. All of this makes the game even harder to understand.

Five of clubs. Not a bad start.

And what’s with the chokers? They send an electric shock through them whenever they don’t comply with the voice’s instructions and whims, and it’s not anything Jim would like a repeat of. He glances at Oswald. He bore the brunt of it at the demonstration of the way it worked and his neck is still redder for it and it looks so painful too.

Five of spades. Better.

But Oswald, God. Jim thought he was dead, he didn’t want to believe it, but Oswald virtually disappeared and the underworld grapevine soon delivered the news he’d been killed, even if no one found the body. And seeing him here today, even though they’re both in peril, somehow sets Jim’s heart at ease - as well as turmoil.

Two of hearts.

Oswald looks pale. His movements are restricted, screaming of injury, a serious one. The aftereffect of the killing attempt?

Three of hearts.

His eyes are still blazing. It feels like a burn whenever Oswald’s glance brushes past Jim. He avoids meeting his eyes for some reason, mostly.

Jack of diamonds.

Is it because he considers Jim his enemy? Like the rest of their poker gang - Butch, once again at odds with Oswald, striking out on his own; some overambitious Capo, apparently angry with Oswald for threading on his toes on his way to the top, but Jim can’t even remember his name; and him, a cop, Oswald’s enemy by definition.

“Hey, Gordon, you gonna trade?”

“One.”

He relinquishes his Jack of diamonds and gets a seven of spades.

The others trade as well. The Capo looks the easiest of them all and Oswald is, of course, unreadable. Jim’s eyes brush past his, not-catching Oswald’s gaze.

The two open cards are a two of clubs and a seven of hearts. If this was a regular game, Jim would’ve had a pretty decent hand, but the Capo wins this one due to the modifiers that are too hard to track in their inanity, like the impact of the way which one of them faces which direction or the number of letters subtracted from their names after factoring in the date.

Oswald is once again picked on and he loses his belt. Jim tries to ignore that Oswald is in front of him wearing just his shirt and trousers by now, barefoot, enticingly ruffled and _there._ They’re in danger. Oswald’s appeal and Jim’s reaction to it shouldn’t play any role at all.

“Soon you’ll lose, Penguin,” Butch snickers. “And then we’ll all be finally free to go.”

Jim doubts that. The way this wacky ‘mastermind’ behaves they’re more likely to be killed when the game ends, and with Capo and Butch so clearly ganging up on Oswald it would’ve been awful even without stripping, but with that added it becomes something vile. Something reminiscent of high school bullying. Jim never appreciated that. He knows for certain Oswald wouldn’t either. And with their chances being that bad the prospect of death is quite real, but humiliation on top of that is just too fucking cruel.

A six of spades. Four of diamonds. Ace of clubs.

The choker shouldn’t have taken out the new tracker they’ve been testing today. The thing is small and insulated, concealed in Jim’s badge clip. Protected, probably, by the belt as well. It should work. Harvey and the rest of the GCPD should show up any minute now.

One open card this round. A seven of diamonds.

Jim has a shit hand. He trades three of his cards, but he only has a pair of fours now.

Where’s Harvey.

Butch has an awful smile on his face. The Capo looks like a toad.

Jim cannot seem to catch Oswald’s gaze.

Butch pushes on. Jim ups his stake.

Look at me.

The Capo folds. Butch only has three of a kind against Jim’s pair and Oswald’s Jack-high straight. The round should’ve been Oswald’s.

The voice instead once again declares Butch’s victory, making him yell in joy and pump his fist. Jim frowns, his body suddenly tensing up.

“Take it off, Penguin,” Butch says, gesturing with his hand.

The only thing Oswald can take off now is his shirt, and Jim feels his embarrassment and discomfort almost physically, coming off in suffocating waves. He avoids looking at any of them now and juts his chin up stubbornly, and Jim realizes with a sinking feeling that this is the end. Oswald wouldn’t comply and he’ll get electrocuted, and by the looks of it…

He jumps to his feet and shrugs his jacket off in a hurry and he drapes it over Oswald’s shoulders before anyone can react and try to stop him. Only then Oswald looks at him, finally meeting his eyes in a breathtaking moment, and Jim never realized just how much he’d missed this look. He feels suddenly lightheaded and he winks at Oswald.

“Detective Gordon, this is against the rules,” the voice speaks again, clearly irritated.

“So is rigging the game,” Jim says and flips the ceiling off. “You modify it, we do it too.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you for this.”

“Do it then,” he says, defiant, and braces himself.

The shock still catches him by surprise, felling him, and the pain is too much for pride but he still tries his best to stay silent.

“Jim, no!” he hears as if from a distance, and sees a vague shape of Oswald rushing to his side and reaching out.

“No,” he manages to grit out. “Don’t- don’t touch…”

Except he does feel the touch between the waves of shock, on his shoulders, as Oswald cradles him. And once more, when Oswald’s… cheek? brushes over Jim’s forehead, and then Oswald gets shocked through him as well, his arms tensing around Jim convulsively. We’re a circuit now, the thought pierces Jim’s mind between shocks.

He hears laughter, or maybe he’s imagining it.

Then there’s some kind of loud impact noise and the pain stops. Jim breathes heavily, his brain in a confused overdrive, registering just the tight hold over him before he blacks out.

When he comes to, he’s inside an ambulance car, wrapped in a blanket, Alvarez in the background telling them to go already.

“Oswald…” he mumbles, barely able to move his mouth. Everything aches. “Where’s Oswald?..”

He loses consciousness again before anyone gives him an answer, trying his hardest to stay in the reality and failing.

Jim spends a day in the hospital, mainly asleep. Harvey comes by to check on him, tells him they grabbed Nygma but he managed to slip away in the commotion.

“Ever since he’s framed you that nerd had his screws all loose,” Harvey tsks, shaking his head in disdain.

“What about…” _Oswald_ _,_ he wants to ask, but catches himself before the slip, “the rest?”

“We had Butch and that Capo in custody, but they were bailed out. Now, don’t glare at me like that,” Harvey says. “You know our DA and the commissioner don’t see eye to eye with you.”

“And O-- Penguin?”

“Penguin?” Harvey squints at him. “That guy’s dead, Jim, have you forgotten?” He stands up uneasily, his tired joints cracking. “I’ll ask ‘em to check you once more, just in case.”

Jim sinks back into the pillows when Harvey leaves. Did he imagine seeing Oswald there? But shouldn’t Butch and the rest have seen him as well?

They release him after another couple of tests, although the doctor looks dubious and urges him to come for a follow-up test in a few days. Jim agrees if only to get him and Harvey both off his back. Harvey drives him home and leaves after a while, telling Jim to take it easy.

Jim’s flat is quiet and dark when he is finally alone, and Jim doesn’t feel up to anything so he just falls asleep.

There’s a soft voice saying something to him in his dreams, but he can’t make out any of the words. Something warm touches his cheek briefly, like a feather.

In the morning he finds his jacket carefully folded over the back of a chair.

There’s a card in the inside pocket. A Jack of diamonds, Oswald’s last played card. There’s something written over it.

_Thank you, Jim._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to celebrate getting a 100 followers on my [Tumblr](http://lalaurelia.tumblr.com/), and this was the prompt I got. It got me thinking all kinds of things, but I know next to nothing about playing poker, so I couldn't focus on it more and the story became... this.
> 
> Hope you guys still enjoyed that!  
> Feedback would be greatly appreciated :)


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